Chapter 6 Kitty #2
I didn’t answer, but my skin pebbled all the same at his astute, if cynical, observation.
Yes, it was a cruel irony. Sebastian had been free to roam the country that had once been my home, to speak of it with authority, while I—half-Indian, yet raised a stranger to my own mother’s land—had been torn away and taught to be silent about it.
Why had God allowed us to be torn from our mother? Why did He seem so distant from the sorrows of those who loved Him? Not only in the past, but even now—when I was being pressed into a loveless marriage.
I couldn’t wait for an answer when my future loomed ever so gloomy. If I wanted to avoid this fate, I would have to act swiftly—and think of something far more drastic to repel Sebastian Sinclair’s attentions.
Edward’s wry observation had struck a nerve, but I swallowed my reaction. I had perfected my manners, my music, my deportment—yet here, in a salon devoted to female intellect, my presence seemed an afterthought.
Lady Ashford reclined against the settee and redirected the room’s attention to the man I loathed.
“Mr. Sinclair, I’m sure you’ve heard of our Mr. Wilberforce,” she said brightly, referring to the parliamentarian whose campaign to end the slave trade had made him a darling among the ladies of the salon.
“He once said, ‘It is the true duty of every man to promote the happiness of his fellow creatures to the utmost of his power.’ Do you share his view, sir—that our Empire bears a sacred responsibility toward the nations under its rule? Given your family’s position in Calcutta, I should think you have a particular perspective. ”
I waited, curious how Mr. Sinclair would respond. He glanced at me, a slight flicker in his gaze. “Mr. Wilberforce’s views are, shall we say . . . admirable, if occasionally impractical.”
I tensed as an older woman with spectacles nodded. “Mr. Wilberforce’s ideals are all very noble, but who ensures such policies are upheld abroad? The East India Company seems to behave as though Parliament’s rules don’t apply to them at all.”
There was a murmur of agreement, and Lady Ashford’s eyes gleamed with interest as she tilted her head to regard Mr. Sinclair. I couldn’t resist leaning forward, toward him. In doing so, I caught a whiff of something much like sandalwood and spice—altogether disconcerting.
“Surely, Mr. Sinclair, the Company could do more to fulfill its noble mission, as they say. Do you not find it troubling how the local people are . . . used for profit?” I asked loudly for the other women to hear.
His gunmetal gaze met mine, surprise replaced by something harder.
“Certainly, none of us should turn a blind eye to suffering, but I daresay, Miss Grenville, there is corruption in every area of every society. Not just Britain’s.
One only need wander through India to see evidence of its caste system and the blatant poverty assigned to those with the misfortune of being born into families of lower caste. ”
I pressed on undeterred, my cheeks flaming. “I’ve also heard of the opium fields. The Company turns a blind eye to it from all appearances. I confess, I don’t understand the purpose behind its trade. Perhaps you could explain?”
A muscle in his jaw tightened as if he searched for an adequate response.
“Opium is a vice, yes—one sold freely here in England as laudanum, without regulation. But abroad, the trade has become entangled with broader imperial interests. China restricts foreign imports yet demands silver in return for its goods. Opium, unfortunately, became the British solution. It buys silk, porcelain, tea—the very tea you drink from those delightful cups. I, for one, would prefer to see India rich with tea and indigo plantations. I hope combined reform might bring mutual benefit to all in India.”
“So says the conqueror. Perhaps interests would be best served if the Company had no reach at all in India and left the governing to the maharaja or the nizam.”
“Kit—” Edward hissed into my ear. A bruising pinch on my arm would follow, no doubt.
But if I could not speak boldly in a literary circle, where could I exercise my voice? And hadn’t Edward shared this information over the years with me, thanks to his studies in London?
“The maharaja?” Sebastian’s voice deepened. “Which maharaja? The ruler of Awadh, forced to cede half his lands under pretense of misrule? Or one of the many whose courts still turn a blind eye to sati?”
I blinked. “Sati?”
“The burning of widows.” His jaw flexed again. “I saw the ash circle myself outside Serampore. A young woman, not even twenty, led weeping to her husband’s pyre. She knelt obediently while the priests bound her ankles so she couldn’t flee. The crowd cheered as they lit the flame.”
My stomach turned. And the women gasped around me.
He continued ruthlessly, “William Carey and others have tried to stop it. But our reformers are dismissed as meddlers, and our merchants as conquerors. So tell me—should we have stood back and allowed a woman to be burned alive? Or does justice demand more than silence, even from imperfect men?”
“Yes, sati is monstrous, and I would see it ended.” My voice shook—not from doubt, but fury. “But so is bleeding a nation dry. So is breaking treaties. So is bribing or threatening maharajas until their courts sign away their power and call it partnership.”
I could feel the room freezing. My brother muttered something impolite under his breath.
I lifted my chin, ignoring Edward. “You speak of justice as though the Company invented it. As though a few missionaries redeem the rest of the machine. But justice—true justice—requires honesty. It demands that we name cruelty in all its forms, not just the ones that justify our own presence.”
Mr. Sinclair’s eyes widened and his neck reddened, yet he uttered no response.
“No business entity should be so immense, so powerful as to dictate the affairs of rulers and kings, and by default, the rest of us.” There, my final jab amid soft gasps. Apparently I could shock even in the salon, but Lady Ashford clapped her hands.
“Well said.”
I sensed Mr. Sinclair’s discomfort, knowing I’d struck several blows—and he to me.
It was one thing to spar with him in the privacy of the Grenville home and another to argue in public.
I leaned back, watching as the discussion swirled around him regarding the tea trade in China.
Would the entire British Empire willingly give up so much wealth, including their sacred tea?
Mr. Sinclair cast a lingering glance at me, his gaze stormy but perhaps not as censorious as I might have hoped. No, I read puzzlement. And embarrassment.
The women, having grown used to these debates, continued questioning him about the Company’s conduct and Britain’s duty to the nations. At first, Mr. Sinclair answered tersely, but his defenses slowly faltered as the women fluttered around him.
“I understand Miss Grenville’s concerns, but reform must be pursued if we claim to be a Christian nation. Even kings must submit to a higher power,” Lady Ashford said as she waved her fan. “The East India Company can do no less.”
“Unfortunately, change does not happen overnight,” Mr. Sinclair replied. From the poor muscle jumping yet again in his jaw, I wondered if he would tell Grandfather about the salon. “However, I agree with Miss Grenville. People ought to govern their own land—but I would recommend a slow retreat.”
I disagreed with the idea of slow reform. But that would be an argument for another day, and one I had no intention of continuing with him. With any luck, he would abandon me and pursue some rosy-cheeked heiress, leaving me free to my own pursuits.
Conversation drifted to other topics, including a return to William Carey and his mission work, but my cheeks remained heated and my mind in turmoil.
Perhaps it was the audacity of speaking so openly—or the deeper shame of my own helplessness.
I longed for the courage to press my views further, to stand firm against the very system that had stolen my identity.
At last, Mr. Sinclair turned to me, his voice lowered. “I see now why you brought me here, Miss Grenville. Such vigorous discussion. I’m not sure if I should be flattered or . . . unnerved by your conversation. I confess, I did not expect to be grilled on company policy.”
I managed a frosty smile, but my heart was racing.
“I am merely introducing you to a world of ideas that have long fascinated me, Mr. Sinclair. Though I suspect you, as a man of action, may not find me the ideal bride after all. You should know that I have every intention of attending Lady Ashford’s meetings as long as I am in London. ”
A flicker—anger? curiosity?—passed over his face, but he only inclined his head. “You and your associates will ruin all my neat conclusions regarding young ladies in London. It’s irritating. And oddly . . . refreshing. I should like to come again, if Lady Ashford will allow it.”
I pressed my lips together lest I say something to further encourage him. He was proving to be a singular adversary.
At dinner that night, Grandfather appeared in a sullen mood as he stabbed at lamb slathered in mint sauce.
“You took Mr. Sinclair to the most notorious bluestocking salon in town?”
“I did,” I answered cheerfully, refusing to look at the man seated across the table for a second night of entertainment.
To my dismay, Grandfather had insisted on Mr. Sinclair staying with us at the townhome instead of Marlow Place, reserved for young gentlemen.
I had never felt quite so claustrophobic.
“I won’t allow such behavior from anyone under my roof,” Grandfather all but growled, his jowls trembling with anger as he lifted the hunk of lamb to his mouth. He tore into the meat, as savage as could be.
Silence fell at the table with only the sounds of Aunt’s fork clinking against the china.